


Fraternization

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pseudo-Incest, Step-Brothers, Step-Sibling Incest, handjobs, suggestions of underage sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 23:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10449750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: It’s five in the morning and Scott can hear that Stiles is awake in the bed above. His breathing is patchy, sounding out like the whir of a fan with a loose screw. Scott knows those little huffs, is intimately acquainted with them, can tell when they’re going to give way to breathy moans and raspy words.It’s weird being back in their childhood bedroom after an entire year away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a step-sibling sciles AU no one ever asked for. This is one of the sketchiest things I've ever written.

It’s five in the morning and Scott can hear that Stiles is awake in the bed above. His breathing is patchy, sounding out like the whir of a fan with a loose screw. Scott knows those little huffs, is intimately acquainted with them, can tell when they’re going to give way to breathy moans and raspy words. 

It’s weird being back in their childhood bedroom after an entire year away. Weird, but comfortable somehow. Like college was an extended lucid dream. They say you can’t go home again, and maybe that’s true, but you can make a new home that feels just as good. This is the same room he’s had since he was 12, the same decals on the wall, the same tired and battered furniture, bunk beds that their parents tried to remove when they were 15 but they successfully kept through intense weeks of negotiation. The same companion, the boy who was his brother even before it became official. 

It’s him who’s different. But he still manages to fit.

Scott wriggles about on his kid-bed and signals he’s awake too. He could’ve startled Stiles, launched himself up onto the top with a vault, but he prefers it this way, maneuvering so Stiles is the one making the advances. People who look at them from the outside think that Stiles is pushy, possessive, prone to making Scott follow his lead – and he is. But only because Scott likes it like that.

“You awake, Scotty?” Stiles says into the silence, as predicted, as planned. 

Scott arches up, taps the bottom of Stiles’ bed. “Ahuh.”

“You wanna?”

Stiles leaves it unspoken, a suggestion. It’s part of their play. They finish each other’s thoughts as often as they do each other’s sentences. 

This is dangerous. Their parents are home and though they used to be good at keeping quiet, it’s been a while since they’ve been forced. They share a tiny apartment in Davis and their neighbors are into dubstep. Seems like they didn’t get the memo it’s no longer 2011. Scott and Stiles have to be careful, sure, everyone on campus knows them as brothers, but in their little oasis they can be as loud as the hell they want. Scott’s used to sobbing for Stiles, saying all the filthy phrases they used to whisper under their breath when Noah was at work and Mom was asleep. He’s used to getting Stiles to moan, deep and broken, stuttering out Scott’s name like a plea. 

The structure of their bed shakes and rattles as Scott lifts himself up to the top. It’s not made for two young men, especially not when one has super strength and the other’s broad-shouldered. It’s not made for their bulk in action. They’ll have to keep movement to a minimum, though it’ll be difficult. Whenever they touch, Scott goes a little wild with it. Stiles is worse. 

Stiles is tipped on his side, back against the wall. He’s made space for Scott to settle, and hasn’t bothered to cover up. His dick’s peeking out over the top of his pajama pants, the tip slick and shiny. He thumbs at it like he knows Scott’s entranced. 

“You see Mom’s face when I told her about your grades?” Stiles asks. “She’s proud of you, bro.”

Stiles likes saying “Mom” and “Dad”, “bro” and “brother” when they’re like this, likes stressing the familial connection, because he’s a fallen angel and a little fucked up. Scott loves that about him. 

“She’s proud of you too,” Scott counters, because he knows Stiles sometimes still feels inadequate, like a spare part, no matter how often Mom holds him close and calls him son. 

Stiles shrugs, glancing away, and Scott hopes it’s humility and not rejection. There’s nothing worse than when Stiles feels superfluous. It brings out his spiteful, nastier side. The one he’s gotten a better handle on recognizing, containing, working through. 

It’s half how they started down this path, Stiles wanting to corrupt Scott, wanting to taint him, never knowing that Scott had been having impure thoughts about them together since he’d first learned how to wrap a hand around himself, come all over his tight white briefs.

“Hey,” Scott says, easing forward, dragging a hand into Stiles’ hair. He tugs on it a little, to make sure Stiles is paying attention. “You’re an integral part of this family, Stiles. Who else is gonna take a bullet and eat all the funyuns in our variety snack packs?”

Stiles smirks at that, grudgingly amused. His cock has flagged some, looks softer under his loose thin sleep pants, and Scott decides to take matters into his own hands and change that. 

He slides his fingers over Stiles’ bulge, massages it with his palm. It’s thick and weighty, makes his mouth water, though there is no way they can do that while their parents are asleep down the hall, not with the way it always makes Stiles whine. There’s a pitch of Stiles’ voice that only Scott has ever heard, but that has nothing to do with his werewolf hearing. 

Scott likes teasing Stiles until the material between their skin becomes wet and translucent, likes peering up at Stiles from under his lashes until he’s swallowing so thickly his Adam’s apple bobs with exaggerated speed. He likes pretending to be tentative and unsure of his effect, playing the role of little brother.

He’s five months younger than Stiles. Most of the time, he’s more mature, settled into his own skin. But he lives for Stiles’ over-protectiveness, dies at the thought of being cradled in Stiles’ sure embrace. It feeds into his favored narrative that he’s a lamb in wolf’s clothing. 

“Is that all I’m good for, sweetheart?” Stiles asks, voice soft not only because they don’t want to get caught.

Though Scott dreams about it sometimes. 

And they _are_ dreams, not nightmares.

Scott mock-considers the question, licks his upper teeth just to get Stiles staring at his mouth again. 

“I liked that period of time when you could drive us everywhere,” he hedges. “You having a license was… useful.”

Stiles breathes out a gentle snort of laughter, drives in close and kisses Scott’s answering smile away. He kisses like he could do it for hours, and they tested it once, he absolutely can. He can kiss until their lips are deep red and dusky, swollen from friction and a rush of blood to the head. Scott becomes passive sometimes when Stiles is kissing him, just so Stiles will do everything in his power to make him reciprocate again. 

That’s when Stiles becomes his most obscene. Mutters about how they’re linked by brotherhood in between kisses, reminisces about their landmark moments, the ties that bind them, the same blood that runs through their veins.

It’s not true. Not entirely. It’s somehow the truest thing Stiles ever says.

Stiles rubs up Scott’s spine, pushes him closer, hooks an ankle around his legs to keep him there. Not that Scott would ever try to get away. Scott’s hard too now, can’t help but grind into Stiles’ hip, thinks about all the times they’ve rubbed up against each other like overexcited puppies at a playdate – many of which occurred on this very mattress. Or the one below. Up against the door. In the laundry room with the washing machine vibrating under them. In Stiles’ Jeep, the stick-shift digging into Scott’s thigh.

Scott starts to peel down Stiles’ pants after another minute of barely coordinated frotting, wants to see his whole cock, the purple-red head contrasted with the paler, veiny shaft, the base that’s nested in thick wiry hair. He’s witnessed Stiles’ changes closer than he has his own, and God, if thinking about that doesn’t have him dribbling precome in his boxer briefs. 

“You think you could be quiet if I suck you down?” Scott asks. He has to at least pose the question, because his jaw’s already giving him the phantom ache that tells him he wants to open wide.

Stiles shakes his head, rapid. “I wish I could, but I’ll wake up the entire street, you know I will,” he says with a catch. He presses his thumb against Scott’s lower lip, dips it into his mouth. “You were made for me,” he reminds Scott. 

Scott scowls. It isn’t all make-believe. “Sometimes you’re such a bullying big brother.”

Stiles’ dick twitches against Scott’s leg and he frowns like he’s in pain. He probably is. He doesn’t do well with blue balls, used to bring himself off four times a day, before Scott started helping. 

“Sometimes you’re a little brat,” Stiles retorts, but he sounds affectionate and he’s kneading Scott’s ass, gently pressing a finger against his hole because he knows it drives Scott crazy. There isn’t any slick, but the tip of his finger edges in enough to have Scott swiveling his hips until their cocks are aligned. 

“Wish you could be in me for real,” Scott huffs, cupping his hand around the heads of their cocks and twisting. He can barely get his hand all around them but he’s had a lot of practice and manages okay. 

“Later, baby bro,” Stiles promises. He kisses Scott’s forehead and ruts into Scott. They always find the perfect rhythm, even when there’s no repetition, have an innate understanding for how to slip and slide against each other.

The bunk bed creaks beneath them, worryingly loud. Scott uses his free hand to hold Stiles against the wall, stop him from canting into him, fists his hand tighter and faster instead. Stiles’ dick is perfect against his, wet and hard, and Scott never tires of how well they mesh, like they were cut from the same cloth. 

“You close?” Scott asks, pressing into Stiles’ slit the way he likes, the way that makes him go cross-eyed and loose, ready to be fucked open. 

Stiles’ answer is to come all over his knuckles, shuddering like he’s going to break apart. Scott swallows down Stiles’ strangled moan as he comes, licks into him deep – the pretense of the wide-eyed ingénue difficult to maintain with your brother’s come cooling and becoming viscous between your fingers. There’s a strain in Stiles’ breathing and Scott knows it’s because he’s over-sensitive, but he can’t stop pushing against him, chasing the last of the skin-tug rasp of their dicks. 

He comes so hard his whole body twitches with it, toes stretching out and fangs sharpening against his lips. Stiles recovers enough to stroke a hand over his head, gentles him in the aftershocks. He kisses his fang-filled mouth as if he’d never stop, doesn’t seem to mind about the mess of them. 

“Wanna shower with you,” Stiles mumbles an hour or so later. 

There’s the smell of coffee coming from downstairs and they should definitely peel away from each other. Noah has been known to come crashing into their room unannounced. They’ve used nightmares as an excuse precisely twice, and Scott’s worried a third time’s going to define a pattern in Noah’s detective-oriented brain.

His cock twitches thinking about it.

He doesn’t really want to get caught. It just tickles the deep, dark parts of him only Stiles ever sees.

“Last to the bathroom does household chores for two weeks,” Scott replies, launching himself off the top bunk and to the door in a second flat, because he adores Stiles’ outraged, indignant squawking. 

Stiles has hardly gotten untangled from the pajama bottoms that must’ve still been around his ankles by the time Scott slides into shower stall and he cackles to himself as he hears Stiles raging, and their mom downstairs exasperatedly intoning that the boys must be awake.

It’s six-thirty in the morning and he’s back in his childhood home again, reliving memories that any sensible person would try to forget. All of the ill-advised mistakes and immoral actions. He knows that what he and Stiles have is _wrong_. But it feels right, down to the core of him, and that’s all he really cares about.


End file.
